


Acquired Taste

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, F/M, Food Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1584752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lister covertly watches Kochanski eating peach slices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acquired Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Trope Bingo square 'food porn', as prompted by feckles over on Tumblr. There's technically no, uh, two-person sex in this? I rated it Explicit because Lister gets pretty imaginative, but yeah, sorry. Also sorry (and slightly confused at myself) because it's not slash.
> 
> Red Dwarf characters belong to Grant Naylor and I am making no money off this work of fan fiction.
> 
> * * *

Lister’s never really been a sweet person. It’s savoury food for him; the more mouth-scorchingly spicy and sinus-burning, the better. As such, every time they encounter a new derelict, the supplies get divided three ways: the spicy stuff the others refuse to eat, the Cat’s primarily cereal based diet (Kryten says he needs to thank evolution for breeding out the feline trait of being an obligate carnivore; Lister  _thinks_ he means they’re lucky the Cat can eat stuff other than meat), and Kochanski’s, well,  _fruit_ .

(Sometimes there’s even _vegetables_. Sometimes she makes him _eat some_.)

She’ll gripe, each time, about everything being in tins, nothing fresh, and then pull together something that looks like it’s fresh off the cover of a cookbook, and Kryten will sniff and give Lister his reheated curry, and the Cat will play with his Cheerios. Everyone ends up happy eventually. Kochanski will offer to share her cottage cheese and pineapple chunks, and Lister will pretend to vomit, and then she’ll go to bed and he’ll go back to the cockpit, until it’s time for the midnight change of shift.

It’s been a while since they last found a derelict to loot, though perhaps that shouldn’t be quite so unexpected considering that they are three million years from Earth, give or take a few hundred years of deep sleep. Plus the probability of other ships coming out on their exact trajectory is not all that high, given the infinite directions that they could have exited the solar system.

‘The’ solar system. As though their sun were the only one.

Still, he remembers evenings in the obs dome with Rimmer, watching the void drift past, listening to Rimmer opine about other ships sent to search for them, following their dwindling vapour trail, radio signal, Holly’s distress calls, anything, just anything to bring them home.

Thinking of Rimmer makes him feel a little melancholy; he turns in his seat to see the empty chair, and for a moment wishes ghosts were real. Like it or not, Rimmer kept him sane; Kochanski does not. Rimmer almost had him convinced that marrying Kochanski was no longer a realistic life goal given that she was dead; Kochanski, alive and well, if occasionally petulant, is too present for him to reject that old desire entirely, especially given that if it worked out with other-him, why can’t it work out with him-him?

He’s not quite done with his cockpit shift yet, but his lower back is aching from sitting for so long. Lister stands up and stretches, hearing his vertebrae crackle, and strolls to the cockpit doorway.

Kochanski is sitting at the table in the midsection, her profile accentuated and flattered rather than insulted by the dim light that hangs over the table. Lister is about to speak when he sees what she’s doing and the words catch in his throat.

She’s eating tinned peach slices. It absolutely should not be a big deal at all, except that for reasons of her own she’s foregone a spoon or even a fork and is picking the slices out of the tin with her fingers. And even in the half-light, Lister can see the way the juice runs over her hand, down her wrist, one daring trickle making it to mid-forearm before Kris, unaware of his presence, lifts her arm and nonchalantly drags her soft pink tongue over her soft white skin. Her saliva gleams on her skin where she’s licked the roving golden globules away.

When she bites the segment in half another runnel of nectar escapes. This time she catches it on her palm, and when her tongue curls back into her mouth it’s with a pleased murmur; the look on her face telegraphs _got you!_ to the wayward fruit.

She must have already been there for a while, enjoying her treat while Lister was staring out of the window and musing about the past, because she repeats the process on just two more slices before Lister hears her nails scrape on the bottom of the tin. She sucks the last slice into her mouth and Lister has to bite down hard on his lip to stifle a moan at the way her pretty pink lips move. She tilts the tin against her mouth, unselfconsciously drinking down the last of the nectar.

Then she slips her index and middle fingers into her mouth and draws them back out slowly, and Lister feels his teeth almost meet through his lip.

Kochanski licks her other fingers and thumb clean rather less dramatically, dismissing Lister’s half-conceived idea that perhaps she knows he’s there and is putting on a show. When she gets up to toss the can into the recycling bin under the sink, that’s when he unfreezes and throws himself back into his seat, heart thumping away.

‘Hi, Dave.’ She comes into the cockpit and slips into the Cat’s seat. ‘Give me control?’

_Any time_ , Lister thinks. ‘Control is with you,’ he says, flicking the relevant switch. Kochanski runs through her standard shift start test of the console and steering yoke; satisfied that everything’s working, she gives Lister the nod and he stands up, grateful of the relative darkness of the cockpit meaning that she cannot see the way his cheeks are burning.

‘Sleep well,’ she says.

‘Happy flying.’

They generally don’t exchange many words at this midnight changeover; he’s usually too tired, for one thing, but this time he’s anxious to get out of there.

He makes only one stop on his way to his sleeping quarters, and that’s to fish the peach tin out of the recycling.

Door locked, Lister throws himself onto his bunk and paws his trousers open. He presses the tin against his lips, inhaling the sugary scent, imagining he can smell her skin and mouth along with the fruit. Heedless of sharp edges, he laps at the inner rim of the tin, stroking himself roughly. His mind is presenting him with multiple images, but two stand out the strongest: Kris sucking him the way she sucked her fingers, tongue tracing his length the way it traced her own arm, the head of his cock disappearing between her lips like the fruit’s ripe flesh.

The other image, the one that tips him over the edge, is almost exactly the opposite; Kris perched on the midsection table, leaning back with her legs spread, murmuring his name as _he_ works _her_ with lips and tongue, comparing the sharper taste of her with the syrupy taste of the peaches.

It takes him longer to recover than usual. He finds tissues, wipes up, and hides the peach tin in the old wooden box he’s been using in lieu of a locker. Kryten might be used to cleaning suspicious stains off the sheets, they’ve known each other too long to dissemble about that, but Lister knows that Kryten finding a peach tin, or any fruit tin in here, would lead to a horrific fit of suspicion on the mechanoid’s part.

He runs his finger around the inside of the tin before he shuts it away, though, and sucks the rivulet of juice away thoughtfully.

He thinks maybe he’s becoming a sweet person.


End file.
